Ruined
by Gelana
Summary: SPOILER ALERT FOR SEASON FOUR! Grown up themes and the depiction of the aftermath of sexual violence. I've tried to be respectful, but if you think you will be offended don't read it.
1. Ruined

She was grateful for the weight of the pitcher of warm water, she was shaking so badly. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. She'd put the kettle back on the stove, for more warm water and to make Anna a cup of tea, but would have to return for it. Heavens, that poor girl. _Her_ poor girl, for Elsie Hughes had tucked Anna under her wing the moment she arrived at Downton, and in the nigh on twenty years since, she had grown very protective and very maternal over the young woman, indeed. And now this; beyond imagining. Tears threatened and so she bit her cheek to stay focused on the task at hand, on the girl's wishes. She had tucked a fresh dress inside a stack of flannels, a comb in her pocket alongside some salve to help with the bruises and iodine for her cuts. Everything was movingly so slowly - it reminded her of swimming when she was a girl, the way sound and light changed underwater. The first kettle-full of water seemed to take forever to boil. Her shaking hands had knocked more than one housemaid's dress off of its hanger. Fortunately everyone was so involved in their own duties that no one paid her a bit of mind. She squeezed through her cracked door, and the vice on her chest tightened again at the sight of her Anna, barely recognizable, beaten and disheveled, and so beyond comfort. Her kind, sweet Anna, still crouched, tightly huddled in the corner behind the hutch. She deposited her arm load and turned to the girl. "I'll be just another moment, I have a kettle boiling and I need to get a basin."

Anna's wild eyes flicked over Mrs. Hughes before darting back to the corner of the hutch. She nodded sharply and clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting desperately to hold back another sob as it clawed its way from her throat. The housekeeper left quickly, blinking back the water that came to her eyes, straining to not hear the rasping, broken sound of Anna weeping in her head.

When the older woman returned, she quickly locked the door behind herself and set to work readying the basin and water for Anna. "Come here, love," she patted a chair. Anna took a time to register her words, casting a worried glance at the door. "It's locked," Mrs. Hughes affirmed, heartsick at the cast of her sweet girl's face. No woman should ever experience this, but that it should be her Anna, who wouldn't hurt a soul, who had fought so long and hard for her place in the world, her happiness, and her husband. Oh Lord, she was right, Anna was absolutely right. Mr. Bates would kill the man who hurt his wife. Mrs. Hughes shuddered. Hurt was not an adequate word. No words could describe this. "You're safe, my little bird. I won't let anyone see you. Let us clean you up." She took the younger woman's hand, drew her thumb gently across the tense trembling she felt there. She tried to smile reassuringly and led her to the chair. There Anna perched anxiously at the cushion's edge as though ready to bolt at any moment. "Come, my sweet girl, let me help you." Anna flinched when Mrs. Hughes began to unfasten what was left of her dress. Pale hands flew up to clutch at the ripped material, her breath coming faster. This time Elsie knelt down before her, trying to catch Anna's eyes, willing her voice to remain reassuring and even and not crack into the hysteria that was threatening to erupt. "Anna. Anna, love, it's just me. You're safe Anna, it's just me."

Again those desperate, panicked eyes met hers, but at least she could see recognition and understanding. Anna nodded her disheveled head and choked back another sob, but let her hands fall into her lap. Her shoulders slumped and she acquiesced. Elsie cringed as she peeled the torn fabric from Anna's shaking form and revealed raised red marks that were already beginning to bruise. Her underclothes were in tatters as well. The more fabric Elsie removed, the more the housekeeper felt as though she would be sick. She helped Anna up to step out of the ruined clothes and clenched her teeth at the full extent of the violence laid into her sweet girl.

* * *

The warm water felt good. That much she registered. Mrs. Hughes touches were tentative and gentle as she held her chin, and smoothed the wash rag over her face. It was slowly bringing her back to reality. She took a deep breath in through her nose. And then she was back in that room with _him_. She collapsed to her knees, doubled over, retching. She didn't bring anything up, but her whole body contracted violently, and the shaking began again. She looked up at Mrs. Hughes when she was able, feeling the panic rise in her throat. "Help me! Oh Lord, I can smell him on me. Please. I have to..." She dissolved into hysterical sobbing again.

She didn't know, really, what happened next; she was vaguely aware of roughly scrubbing at herself with a flannel, while Mrs. Hughes sponged down her back. And somehow her hair was restored and she could smell only soap and lavender. Mrs. Hughes helped her into a fresh dress. She registered the lack of underthings. Mrs. Hughes had promised to burn them, along with her dress so as to avoid questions. She made it haltingly through John's questions, riddled with the guilt of lying to him. Managed not to begin to shake uncontrollably when Mr. Gillingham, Mr. Green called out to them sickeningly from the end of the corridor. Managed to keep her voice even through the indignity of responding to him. Managed to keep John safe. She wanted to hide in her husband's arms. It was then that she realized that this punishment was meant for him, too. A punishment to be forever meted out in increments, but that began the moment he reached for her, all tenderness and confused concern. The look on John's face when she flinched away from him nearly brought her to tears again.

Nothing could still the tears that welled into her eyes at the plaintive way he called after her as she walked into darkness. There would be no end to darkness now. She walked as fast as she could and still maintain a somewhat even gait. Every step was laced with aftershocks of pain. She hadn't realized it was possible to hurt like this. Hadn't realized shame and guilt could cut like a knife. Hadn't realized a person's life could change so violently in such a short period of time. She should have. John had warned her.

This was what it was, what it felt like to be ruined. For she was. Nothing would ever be the same. Her world felt fractured and raw. Part of her wanted to curl into John's arms and sob, but that was the one thing she could not do. For as soon as he touched her he would know. What was worse, the other part of her wanted to never be touched again. If John ever found out...

That realization had shaken her to her core and panicked her more than anything else after _he_ finished with her and left her to herself in the raw electric light. John would kill him. And then John would be hanged. And so she had pulled herself together and tidied the mess; the mess her scrabbling arms and clawing hands had made. The hands that shook as she hurriedly picked up several pairs of shoes, brushes, and jars of boot black. One of them was a pair of Lady Mary's. She would need to come in early to brush and polish them. She flipped the switch, turning of the light. Her ears rang tinnily, like a voice through Mr. Matthew's gramophone. The mess. The mess would attract attention. She stumbled to the kitchen, straightening the counter there before slipping into the welcome dark of Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.

She began to shake so hard her teeth chattered. She dug her thumbnail into her palm and swallowed her tears to pray. To pray she hadn't missed anything that would raise questions. To pray that Mrs. Hughes would help her keep John safe by staying silent. To pray for a spare dress and the strength to walk home. To pray for John to forgive her for lying to him and being false and breaking his heart, Because she knew she'd have to if she wanted to keep him alive. Better that than he should be hanged. Either way, her life, their beautiful life together was over. Never mind the looks of pity and derision that she would be the focus of if anyone knew, the horrible things he would have to hear. The most sacred thing in her life was tainted now. What was between she and her husband had been theirs alone, a blessed haven, worked excruciatingly long and hard for, created out of mutual trust and tenderness between the two of them. Oh, and it had been such a thing of beauty. How could she ever touch him again now? Not when this had happened, when this was what she would see and feel in her head. Not when she was soiled like this. She stopped and braced herself against a tree, heaving again, into the darkness; this time bringing up bile and the tea Mrs. Hughes had given her, tea with a touch of whisky, to calm her nerves. Oh Mrs. Hughes, bless her. Anna worried at her ability to keep this all a secret, but prayed she would. No one must ever know. She fumbled the key in the lock and hurried inside, locking the door shut immediately behind her. No one. No one must ever know. John wouldn't be too much longer. She added coals to the stove, coaxed them alight and smoldering, and put the heavy cast iron kettle on. She set to work drawing buckets of water for a bath. She felt like she would never be clean. At least she could lock the door of the washroom so John wouldn't see her. She hurried to the bedroom and collected her nightdress and shawl and knickers. The sight of the bed, their marriage bed, stopped her dead. How could she lie next to him tonight? She closed off that corner of her mind and shook her aching head, it was too big and too painful to fathom just yet. Tea, she would leave tea and biscuits out for him, so he would feel less like she was upset with him. And fire, she needed to light the fire in the bedroom, prepare the bed warmers. She wracked her brain. What else did she do when she got home first? Her head hurt so, and her neck and scalp. She ached all over, but she was more comfortable focusing on the stinging of her split lip and the throbbing in her neck and head than any of her other hurts. She was grateful for the work, for the weight of the buckets of water, the lightness of the coal she had fed to the stove, for the warmth of the fire she built, the normalcy of it all.

John was always saying how strong she was. Now she had to find that strength and do whatever was needed to keep her husband from the gallows. She had told him once that for him she would bear anything. She had meant it with her whole heart then and meant it just as strongly now. She loved him more than life itself and it meant she had to be strong enough for the both of them. Strong enough to keep him safe, to spare him her shame. Even though it meant hurting him and pushing him away. She began to shake all over again. She needed to formulate a plan, excuses that made sense, ways to avoid his eyes, to hide the pain and bruises. He was so attuned to her. He would know. He would feel it in her bones as soon as he touched her, held her. She poured the final bucket of cold water into the bath. The kettle was at a full boil, so she tipped the roiling water into the tub as well and refilled it from the sink, put it back on the stove. It didn't really matter, she would never be clean again.

* * *

"Mr. Bates!" Mrs. Hughes hurried down the corridor, grateful to have caught him. Her voice left her when she reached him, and she had to clear her throat before she managed, as evenly and normally as possible to tell him to relay to Anna that she was to stay in bed and rest tomorrow. "She seemed so shaken up after her fall," the dark haired housekeeper finished, unable to meet Mr. Bates' eyes when she said it. She followed by telling him that she would take care of Lady Mary herself, "So Anna won't have to worry about that." At least she could meet his eyes again when she said it, as it was the truth. The lie had burned in her throat and made her chest tight. He nodded, his brow furrowed, concern and something more written across his face, "Yes, thank you Mrs. Hughes, I'll be sure to tell her."

Elsie Hughes made it through the rest of the evening and to her bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind her she had to rush to her bed and snatch a pillow to bury her full throated sobs. Her poor, sweet girl. She wept for a long time, wept until she was gasping and hiccoughing, and beyond. The weight of what she knew made it hard to breath.


	2. Soiled

At first she thought it would be alright. Even though it would never be alright. She would return home, clean up, and act as if nothing had happened. She would love her husband and keep him safe. She would sleep next to him, at the very edge of her side the bed, and forever flinch away when he reached for her. He would be hurt, but he would be safe and whole.

John arrived home later than she thought he would. She heard his key click in the lock from where she sat in the now tepid tub of bathwater. She held as still as she could, ignoring the now familiar throbbing that had become her painful existence, and followed his movements with her ears, as was her way when they were in the cottage together. He passed through the kitchen, ignoring the tea, right by the closed door of the washroom and on up the stairs to the bedroom. She heard him halt there, then walk down the hall to the spare room. He made his way back to the top of the stairs and called out her name in that same plaintive voice. She couldn't bring herself to answer. He walked the cottage again before stopping outside the door. She tensed. _Please God, make me a stone_, she prayed.

He tried the handle and knocked.

_A stone. Make me a stone. Please._ But his words still cut her to the quick, made her want to bleed, made her want to burn or scrape her skin away so that she could be clean again, "Anna, please. It's fine if you're angry with me. Just let me know that you are all right in there. Please."

* * *

Images of her, passed out and bleeding or worse, slumped just under the water level in the tub sluiced adrenaline down his back and through John's gut. He neared breaking down the door as the silence stretched on far too long. Her voice sounded strained when it reached his ears, "I just needed a soak. I'll be up in a bit." He didn't respond, but stood at the door, his heart raw and aching for her, before slowly shuffling back towards the stairs. He paused after only a few steps and raised his voice gently to carry back through the washroom door, "Mrs. Hughes said you are to keep to bed tomorrow and rest. She'll take care of Lady Mary."

Anna stayed silent, so he relented eventually, and continued up the stairs.

Only his Anna, obviously hurting and upset with him and perhaps something more, would see to lighting the bedroom fire before tending to herself. She even set the bed warmers on the hearth. It bothered him to think of her filling the bath in the state she was in, but she was always telling him that she was no delicate flower. The fire made him hopeful that her strangeness was mostly because she had taken ill. He took to ambling about the painfully empty room, readying himself for the coming day, trying to keep his mind from turning circles.

He had thought surely she would have opened up to him here in their home. Surely she would tell him what it was tonight. They had never gone to bed angry, she had always insisted on that. Even if an agreement could not be reached, they agreed to disagree. To find the house empty, with her locked in the washroom frightened him.

His mind and stomach churned as he readied for bed. She never lied to him, but she seemed so out of sorts when she told him about her dress and the fall. It couldn't be the whole truth. For as slight as she appeared, she was of a strong constitution and she was almost never taken ill. He had never known her to swoon or faint. But the way she shied away from him when he reached for her - that worry was the worst of them all.

He waited a long time to hear her feet padding up the stairs. Hoped that he would waken to her sliding under the comforter and curling next to him. He would kiss her scrapes and bruises, thread his fingers through her damp hair and murmur his apologies, and she would tell him what was really the matter.

He cursed himself for berating her so publicly during that ridiculous card game. He was angry with Mr. Gillingham, Mr. Green for the liberties the man was taking with his wife, and if he was honest it made him jealous and surly to watch Anna smiling and laughing and allowing him to be so physical with her. Something about the man set John's teeth on edge. He sighed. It didn't matter how he felt about Green; he trusted his wife, and should not have taken his anger at the suspicious valet and the situation out on her. She was simply being her usual sweet and friendly self and did not deserve to be bellowed at. He knew that they would have words later when he was abrupt with Green, and her response was to deliberately turn to the younger man, thank him for the game and then leave without resolving their conversation. Words, not this horrible silence. She had looked so very upset, so lost.

He tried to stitch together the truth from the limited information he possessed. She had been feeling poorly enough to go downstairs to get a powder. She fell and hit her head and split her lip. She was obviously not telling the whole truth. Even someone who didn't know her well could see that. She looked pale and drawn and very unwell. Blood stains had ruined her dress. And when she told him about it, her explanation sounded feeble and false. Something was very, very wrong. Then a thought crossed his mind that left him icy cold and feeling gutted. What if she had been pregnant? She could have been. He thought back and it had been at least two or three months since they had been together during her cycle. They had joked about it in the quiet dark of the early morning tracing patterns on each other's skin. Anna had complained how she didn't like lying next to him and being prevented from taking whatever full advantage of him she so desired. "Being apart during those particular days make them seem to pass more quickly," she had burred behind his ear before nipping the sensitive skin she found there. Twice he had been in London with his Lordship and in between she had gone with Lady Mary on the train to pay call to Lady Rosamund for the woman's birthday. What if she had been pregnant and waiting to tell him until she was farther along and had instead miscarried? He swallowed against the ache that rose to the back of his throat and blinked back hot tears. But why? How could she hide something like this from him?

It would account for everything though; feeling faint, her palor, the obvious lies. He prayed it wasn't the case, but if not, then what? Something was very wrong.

What if she _had_ miscarried and he had been surly with her in front of the other staff immediately before hand? Oh Lord help him, if it was true he would never forgive himself. Whatever it was he had done, surely she would come upstairs soon and share it with him. Even if she was angry with him, and she had every right to be, she wouldn't let him go to sleep wondering. He had acted shamefully, towards the one person he cherished above all others, towards the woman responsible for saving his life and his freedom. He rolled onto his left side and stared at the moon until his vision blurred and it split in two.

* * *

She was still sitting in the bath when the groan of the bed springs announced the end of John's nightly rituals. The water had cooled to the point of making her shiver uncontrollably, but she welcomed it; she would rather shiver from the cold than quake like the sullied heroine of a tawdry romance novel. She felt like the cold helped the pain a little. So she stayed where she was. When she couldn't keep her teeth from chattering and the water chilled her skin to burning she finally pushed up out of the tub. She toweled herself dry for the second time that night and pulled on her knickers (trying not to see the torn pair in her mind) and her nightdress and wrapped the shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes sought out the mirror for the first time since entering the washroom. She hadn't wanted to see any more of the violence written on her body than she had to; didn't want to know how bad it looked, but she needed to make sure that all marks were hidden safely out of sight. Even though he had been in bed and silent for nearly an hour, she knew he was likely still awake. She walked numbly into the sitting room, skin still burning as her body fought off the cold, and curled into a tight ball on the settee. She would go upstairs when she was sure he was asleep to avoid questions and the growing concern and pained confusion in his eyes.

The moonlight filtered into the bedroom, an hour or so later when she finally mounted the stairs, carefully avoiding the two steps that creaked. It painted silvery shadows over the bed. He was turned away from her, towards the window and her side of the bed. Her throat constricted as she traced the curve of his spine through his nightshirt with her eyes. He seemed to be asleep; his breathing looked even and he did not stir when she pushed the door open wider. She had always loved looking at him in the moonlight, but looking at him now felt like a violation, as though she had forfeited the right to watch him intimately. Her stomach turned to lead. As she stood in the doorway to the bedroom, her mind scrabbled for the same purchase her hands had sought a few hours earlier, for some way to twist out from under it all. Suddenly and sharply it hit her, as hard as he had hit her. She had made this happen. It was her fault. She no longer had any right; not to lie in the same bed with him, not to watch him as he slept, not to kiss him, or touch him. She was poisoned; soiled. She had squandered everything that was good and right in her life. She had no right to be here, to dirty their home, their love. She clamped her hand over her mouth at the intake of air that she knew by now preceded her unbidden tears, turned on her heel and stumbled back downstairs.

She had brushed John off when he voiced his unease about Lord Gillingham's valet. She had _laughed_ with the man who had done this to her, playfully brushed aside his flirtations. She felt flattered for the attention, not that she was attracted to him, but it felt nice to be noticed by someone other than her husband, to be sought out. She had brushed away John's intuition as jealousy. Had swelled a bit pridefully that John would bluster over her so. She should have listened to him. _Oh John, I'm so sorry. _

She felt as though she was be ill again when she remembered _his_ words. "You look to me like you could use some real fun for once. Is that what you want?" She'd had words with John in front of him, pointedly snubbed her husband after he was short with the other valet. John knew how much she loved him and even if her actions were making him a touch jealous, he knew she was only being friendly towards the man. But _he_ didn't know her. There she was, being playful with him, while her husband glowered in the background, never exactly insisting he stop his flirtations, never making it clear without a doubt that she wasn't interested. Of course she would have come across as a woman who was unhappy in her marriage and seeking a liaison. God, it was all her fault.

She sank to her knees against the wall, next to the still warm stove, hidden from sight, and wept as silently as she could into a dish towel, because her life was over and it was her fault and because with every breath she could feel everywhere he had forced himself on her. Her chest tightened and she felt it all over again. This time she let herself, because this time she knew that she had deserved it. She wouldn't sleep tonight. Didn't want to. Realization sank in that she couldn't stay here. She couldn't. Not now. This was their sacred space, holier to the both of them than anything else in the world. She polluted it with her very presence. Sullied John. It was quarter past four now anyhow and she would need to get an early start, for she had to polish Lady Mary's heels.


	3. Secrets

He evened out his breathing when he heard her trying to quietly climb the stairs, a deep sense of relief enveloping him. Since she was obviously trying to avoid him, he hoped that feigning sleep would make it easier for her to slip into bed. The door protested softly when she pushed it open wider. But she didn't come all the way inside. And then he heard a sharp intake of breath, and she was rushing back down the stairs, trying to hide the sound of her weeping. He was at a complete loss as to what to do.

He woke with a start. It was light outside. Her side of the bed had been mussed only by his own restless slumber. Mercifully, he hadn't dreamt a thing.

He rose, and walked the cottage looking for her, but she had gone.

He couldn't decide which was worse, that something was this wrong or that she felt she couldn't come to him.

* * *

First Mrs. Hughes with her shocked eyes, then John, coming inside the boot room. She tried to slip past him as innocuously as she could. She hadn't seen _him_ yet. He would be at the table at breakfast. She assumed as much because he would expect her to stay abed. It was somehow very important to her to show him that she was stronger than he thought, that he hadn't entirely beaten her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She didn't like how her heart thrummed wildly in her chest. Worked hard to still the slight tremor that gripped her when she realized there were only two available seats. The chair directly across from Mr. Green, or the seat next to him. She had a choice. She could be forced to look her attacker square in the face as he sat next to her husband. Or she could sit next to him, and not have to see his face, but still be under John's worried scrutiny. She chose the latter. The former was not an option. That, she could not have borne.

It was all a blur. Thomas' surprised but not unkind questioning. Mrs. Hughes leaping quickly but gently to her defense. She flicked her gaze about just below faces, not quit meeting anyone's eye. _He_ was not beside her. Just another servant, not _him_. John rounded the table. She thought perhaps she might be able to manage it. John started to sit down. Oh God, she didn't even deserve to be sat at the same table with him. Then _he_ shifted his leg and it pressed up against hers, hidden from sight under the table. She was up out of the chair, scrambling backwards like a shot, swallowing a wave of nauseau. She snapped her excuse, disgusted at him, angry at herself. She was not strong, not strong enough to keep this from happening. Not strong enough to sit across from her husband and make her face still. She was terrified he would read the story of the last twelve hours with his usual ease despite her best efforts. Images of her husband's beautiful hands clamped around Green's throat darkened her thoughts further. The look on his face that she had only seen that one time at the public house in Kirby Moorside when a soused patron had accosted her. When the patron didn't back down she had watched, horrified, as Mr. Bates had bodily dragged the man outside and felled him with one savage blow. It had been one of the rare times he had made her afraid. Not afraid _of_ him, never that, but afraid for him. It was all she could feel now. It took her a long time to catch her breath on the servants' stairwell, but she did. She hadn't wept. That was something, at the very least. She wasn't cowering in a corner. _Stone. Make me a stone. _She took a deep breath, steadied her features and slipped on the familiar mantle of servant and lady's maid. She continued the long climb to Lady Mary's room, smartly tidied shoes in hand.

* * *

She was nothing if not a perceptive woman. She had noticed his return to the concert sometime after Anna left. She noticed the movement as he restored his suit jacket. She hadn't thought anything of it. A trip to the facilities would have accounted for it; still, she noticed it. And now she noticed how Anna paused behind him, noticed the slightest flicker in her features; how she wouldn't look at him. They had been almost jovial before in their banter. She was nothing if not perceptive and she was nothing if not adept at hiding her true feelings when the need arose, so she acted the maternal, oblivious housekeeper, though it broke her heart at having to lie so blatantly to Mr. Bates.

Sleep had not come until well past three, though if she were honest, she was surprised she had slept at all. She supposed neither Anna, nor Mr. Bates got much sleep either. It was all too horrible to fathom. Had they both not been through enough?

It had shocked her to her core to see Anna, haggard and sallow, walking with slow purpose down the hall. Elsie reckoned the poor girl's muscles likely had a chance to stiffen overnight and were protesting her hurts more decidedly today. She began to rush, then caught herself and pulled up into a normal stride to close the distance between the two of them. The younger woman flinched when Elsie leaned in close to her to speak low, "Anna, love, why are you here?" She began to reach for Anna's hand, but Anna hastily folded her arms across her abdomen. "Did Mr. Bates not tell you to rest today?"

The girl would not meet her eyes. So much coursed across her face in that split second that Elsie felt her own throat tighten. "I couldn't. I'd go mad."

Elsie looked around before taking a step closer and lowering her voice to a bare whisper, "But he is still here, I presume?"

Anna's eyes went faraway for a moment before she began to wring her hands. Then she set her jaw and took a steadying breath. "He is."

The two women regarded each other, and for the umpteenth time since she walked into her darkened sitting room last night her blood ran cold. Anna looked at her hands and her voice turned strained and professional, "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Hughes, a pair of Lady Mary's heels need tending."

"Anna, please," Elsie kept her voice soft and gentle, "Try to go easy on yourself today."

Anna frowned, but nodded, and walked away at a determined but slow clip.

* * *

Lady Mary's eyes had been on her immediately, questioning. She issued her now standard explanation. It was beginning to sound threadbare and cliched to her own ears. Lady Mary looked less than convinced but thankfully let it drop. She went about her work, guided by routine and pure muscle memory, noticing nothing; all she could think of was how the door to the boot room had loomed vulgarly in front of her that morning. She had taken a deep breath and swallowed. It was over. Downstairs was bustling; she was safe while the other staff were around. Her logical mind understood it. But the other part of her mind was screaming and clawing and weeping and raging and being dragged about and held down. She swallowed again and opened the door. She walked inside. It was just a room. Just a room. One she had been in a hundred, a thousand times before. So why could she feel every bruise, every scratch, every sore muscle, every inflamed nerve just a bit more? Why had the dull throbbing sharpened? It was just a room. She was safe. _Safe_. She had scoffed at herself then, even as she thought it. Was anyone ever really safe? Would she ever know what safe felt like agin? She doubted it.

Still, she had a job to do. She drew her attention back to the stockings she was holding out for Lady Mary, willing her mind blank, willing her face impassive. _Please God, make me a stone. _

* * *

He didn't fully believe Mrs. Hughes.

So it _was_ bad. If the housekeeper was lying to him too, it was bad. He was probably spot on; a miscarriage. God forgive him. Anna forgive him. For really, of the two, she mattered far more.

Another thought cut through him as he watched Mr. Green glance at him and walk away. What if he... His mind couldn't finish the thought, surely it could not be that. No. No! No, she would have told him. She wouldn't have kept silent about something like that. He couldn't get her face out of his mind. Couldn't let go of how much the marks there looked like someone had hit her. Still, it was possible; his father had fallen once when he was a young boy and given himself a vicious black eye. The neighbors had all joked that he shouldn't let his wife treat him that way. No, she would have told him if it was anything like that. Why wouldn't she?

He wasn't quite sure how he would make it through the day, how she would make it through the day. He wasn't entirely surprised that she had come to work. If she was determined to act as if nothing had happened, of course that was what she would do. For now, he would let her. He respected her right to come to him in her own time, and if and when she didn't he would suss her out. Still it bothered him deeply to think of her going about her day unwell and obviously in pain.


	4. Whispers

It had been a week since she returned from London and moved back into the house. She was quietly practical about it, and as always discreet, his Anna. For as large as it was, it was a small house and while servants may be trained to be silent, they were not blind nor deaf. The house was respectfully reserved about the situation to she and him. Even Thomas seemed to sense an enormity that he had no business meddling with and gave them a shockingly wide berth. It was as if it were a lie agreed a upon by all. It was happening, but not really and surely not for long.

She was particularly distant in the mornings and evenings. She never announced when she was off to bed, she just faded away, though from what he heard she was up all hours of the night. She disappeared for blocks of time, only to return with a stack of meticulously finished hand work, so that even Mrs. Hughes couldn't complain of her disappearances. He could at the very least catch her on her way down the stairs to break her fast. Though, it was dispiriting to see her avoid his eyes with such conviction first thing in the morning every morning. Still, he was as stubborn as she, this much they had proved over and over again through the years. She had not given up on him, no mater how he tried to shake her, and he would do the same. So he watched her, he tracked her, and he waited.

She tended to avoid the galley and the servants' hall. She was rarely anywhere without something in her hands for more than a few moments. She busied herself with menial and multitudinous tasks. She was sat down for the requisite time at meals, but never seemed to eat anything. Sometimes he watched her mending things that even he knew Lady Mary would never again wear they were so far out of fashion.

He missed his wife. He missed the smell of her hair on the pillow next to him. He missed hearing her laughing to herself about something when he wasn't even in the same room; the way it filled their cottage, their home. He missed the stubborn sharpness of the corner of her jaw, the way it set when she was decided on something, the way it bit into his shoulder if he did not have her properly snugged to his chest. He missed the soft lilt of her voice as they lay together and whispered of everything and nothing into the small hours of the morning. There were so many other things he missed that he could not bear to think about. Their cottage was dark and empty without her; pointless. Still, she could not stay away forever. He would not let her. He could not believe, not truly, that just like that she did not love him anymore. Not after all they had been through, not after all they had pledged, and certainly not after the mountains she moved to make it all happen. And so, every night he came home to an empty cottage and lit the lamp and the fire and made tea. Before he did, he swept out the cold ashes as she has shown him, and stored them in a bin to steep into lye to make soap; only his Anna, he smiled every time he did it; his country girl. When the light broke in the morning he went outside and harvested her herbs, picked spent blooms, and clipped her lavender blossoms from their garden. The lavender they planted together. He bought it for her as an anniversary gift the year previous. She had insisted on no jewelry or finery. They had a plan and were saving. She hiked her skirts up to kneel on the moist earth, grinning widely as he dug out a shallow hole. Her smile turned gentle, maternal almost as she evened out the bottom of the hole and then settled the young plant into it, back filling with generous palm strokes. He had been ready with the watering can, but lost himself watching her. She had to say his name twice before he came to his senses and handed it to her. His eyes rarely left her when they were together, but this time they bored into her with a purpose he knew she felt, because she had that restrained little half smile that meant she was pleased with herself. She took her time pulling off her gardening gloves, loosening the fingers one by one. Then without a word she stood and walked towards the cottage. Just before she ducked through the doorway she had turned and raised her brows at him, "Were you coming then, Mr. Bates, or did you wish to continue gardening on your own?"

He hastened after her, a very ungentlemanly stirring propelling him.

He missed playing with her; the light back and forth banter that had been present even in their letters while he was in prison. He missed watching her snore lightly when he couldn't sleep. He missed sliding into bed and looping his arm around her waist and hearing her pleased squawk when he pulled her bodily over the bed to mould against him. He missed being teased about the books he was reading, being read to in her lilting soft soprano, the way it turned bright when she was feeling bold or mischievous, the way it turned smokey, raspy even during a particularly sensuous passage. He missed hearing his given name on her lips, over and over again, like a prayer when they made love. Oh God, he missed his wife.

* * *

It was late, past eleven, when Mrs. Patmore pushed Anna's sewing pile out of the way and set a cuppa and some biscuits, and a small but generously portioned Yorkshire pudding, still warm, and smelling of roast drippings, thank you very much, in front of the peaked young woman. In all her time at Downton, she had never seen Anna looking so gaunt. Everyone had noticed in the time just before and in the two weeks since she had moved back into the house, but no one seemed to be saying anything. And when one did one was brushed off with a burning the candle at both ends type of statement. Bullocks.

"Oh, Mrs. Patmore, thank you, but I'm fine," the girl had tried to wave her off, but Beryl Patmore, once decided upon something was not easily moved.

"You are not, and if you would be so kind as to not insult me by saying otherwise I'd greatly appreciate it. It's nowt to do with me, whatever it is, but I'll not have anyone say it's me who hasn't been feeding you. So if you don't mind, this pudding won't taste half so good cold, and I've no chance eating it on my own, so please help an old woman out." Anna looked for a moment like she might cry or bolt, or both, but in the end picked up one of the spoons, ate a few bites of pudding, drank the milky, honeyed tea (Mrs. Patmore would be damned if she didn't know everyone's favorings when it came to food and drink, so that punishment, comfort, or praise could be doled out when the respective needs arose.) and sat back with a guarded but relaxed expression while Beryl rattled off about whatever everyday nonsense came to her head.

Elsie seemed to have some knowledge of what the matter was, so at least Anna wasn't completely alone in it. But between Anna wandering, silent and ghostlike, and Mr. Bates feigning cheer when anyone was looking, then sagging defeatedly when he thought people were not, it was all enough to break one's heart just in the sensing of it.

* * *

It has been nearly a month since Bates spoke with me of his marital troubles. Anna is still living here in the house, though Cora's new maid is arrived and seems to be working out, thank heavens. Anna has always been such a delightful girl, so very vivacious and cheerful, always ready with a kind word, when decorum calls for it, that is. Which is why it is so troubling that she has been more somber of late than ever I have known her to be, more so, than during Bates' wrongful incarceration. Somber enough that I have heard everyone, even Edith remark on it. If the remark is directed at her she is quick to shrug it off or claim to simply feel over tired. But I have heard Lady Rose discussing it with Lady Mary on several occasions, and Cora has gone so far as to inquire with Mrs. Hughes. Sweet, dutiful Anna, whatever it is weighs heavily upon her. And as for my good Mr. Bates; to anyone else he appears to be holding up, but I know him well enough, I've known him _through_ enough to say the man is frantic with grief and worry. Call me sentimental, but it breaks my heart. He has been doing his best of course, to be patient, to be constant, and to put up a strong, brave face. No one in the house is fooled by either of them, but such is the English way, to notice and worry and hold our tongues.

He told me once, early on, that someone was sweet on him, he shouldn't like to say who, but the fact alone was astonishing to him. I think it took him until very recently to get over that astonishment, maybe he never has. Watching his affection grow, from my silent vantage point, well, it has been one of the treats of my life. Who knew it is possible for a love to be so deep and wide that it draws people all around to gasping at the splendor of it. It warms the hearts of those not even involved to beating faster. My friend is lucky enough to have himself one of those sorts of loves. He knew, he told me, that whatever she wasn't telling him, she wasn't telling him for a reason. He wanted to give her time, wanted to respect her need to be apart from him, but still insisted on making sure she knew he was there waiting for her. But her rebuffs have been hard to take. He has grown dispirited, as despondent as she is in his own way. My heart goes out to him, as it does to her.

Listen to me, gone sentimental in my age. Still I pray they will find themselves again soon.

* * *

She had always been very aware of all the sounds and noises of the house, found comfort in the very murmurings of the floor boards, the sigh and creak of hundreds of years of wood and stone settling. Now one of her few comforts lay in finding places where a silence that seemed to echo up from the house's very center swallowed her. (She tried very hard to imagine that she wasn't doing everything in her power to avoid her husband. Tried to make it out that she got more work done hidden away.) Her favorites were nooks and crannies, small spaces she found to squeeze into for a few minutes here and there throughout the day, to take little rests from everyone's eyes. A hidden windowed alcove behind a floor to ceiling tapestry, in an out of the way corner of a hallway, was her regular stop after seeing to her Ladyship in the morning. Behind the shelf in the dark in the far corner of the downstairs linen cupboard before or after she pushed food around her plate at meals. Abandoned or forgotten places where she could remove a dust cover from a chair and do needlework near cobwebbed windows in dimly lit peace were her salvation. She had even rediscovered a neglected service stairway and hidden corridor into which she could disappear for whole blocks of time to mend and tailor the upcoming season's clothes and, when she could bear it, to hook lace as John's late mother had taught her. Lady Mary was a bit too modern for it, but the Dowager Countess and Lady Isobel regularly requested pieces.

She had taken to writing things down, lest she forget a task or a promise. She wouldn't have her work suffering. Though, secretly she knew to some degree it had. She carried scraps of paper and a shortened pencil in more than one pocket. She would not stand for being seen doing such a thing, scribbling on such scraps. She used the time tucked away to see to her lists after the one time that they fell from her pocket to the boot room floor like a handful of white feathers. No one had seen it, but the proof of how she was slipping shook her.

The boot room. The boot room was the one room where she made herself go every day. She refused to shy away from it, in part because it felt to her that to do so would be conceding to some sort of vulgar final defeat, and in part because she decided she deserved whatever pain it brought her. It was a sort of natural penance.

She had stopped asking why. Stopped trying to bargain away the pain with long hours of work and sleepless nights with her thumbnail dug sharply into her thigh. Why didn't matter any more. How or what didn't either. It had happened, that was all. She was soldiering now, had a job to do. A mission to fulfill. She had to keep John safe, no matter what that might mean to both of them. It didn't help to ask why. She hated him as much as she loved him now because breaking his heart was breaking her own. She wanted to tell him why, but her path was chosen and laid out for her. So she kept to it, avoided him when she could, and was overly cruel when she couldn't, when he wouldn't let her. His eyes, when she forgot and sought them out were so defeated, so hurt. She was dead tired of eyes, of measured looks, that tried to suss out the meat of things. Of the asked and unasked questions that hovered swollen on everyone's tongues. Everyone noticed. Everyone asked at least once. Almost everyone accepted her silence. God would not make her a stone. No matter how much she prayed.


	5. Balm

It felt good to cry. It was the first time it had felt good to cry since it happened. He held her tightly, surrounding her in that way he had. For a moment she remembered what safe felt like. Even standing, as they were, in the boot room. He smelled so good. In between hiccoughs she breathed him in. His palms were splayed over the flat of her back.

"Come home." He had whispered into her hair when her silent, gasping sobs slowed. "Please."

She couldn't say no, though she still didn't feel she had any right to be there. She had made him suffer so, the least she could do was go where he wanted her to be. It was out in the open now and as much as she wanted to believe he would drop his suspicions of Green, she knew in her heart that he didn't believe her lie. How could he? He would let her hold space with it. Or he wouldn't have let it drop. Like with ... with what happened to her. He knew immediately, not what, but he knew. He knew something was wretchedly wrong and left her the space to come to him for as long as he could bear it. She knew him as well as he knew her. She had never thought of it as anything besides a blessing before. Now she wondered. Now she saw so many things differently. So many things _were_ different. _She_ was different. She was bringing falseness and filth into their home, no matter what he thought. He couldn't see things clearly when it came to her, this much she knew fully, for he had always set her upon such a pedestal. It didn't matter. She wasn't strong like he was. She couldn't stay away. She needed to be close to him, staying away was leading her down dangerous paths, and no one else could diffuse and steer him away from the truth and the murderous thoughts that lurked dark and caged behind everything else. If she felt uncomfortable in her own home, surely she could accept that discomfort for him? If her presence, her lies about Greene tainted them, then it was with the greater purpose of John's well being. Nothing mattered more than him.

Now, especially, she needed to take care of him, after all she had put him through. She had been truthful when she said she knew the suffering it would bring him. She had brought tenfold that suffering down upon him; she needed to wash as much of it away as she could. And she needed him. Just being near him made her feel stronger. She pulled away, took in his wet cheeks. Kissed one, then the other, and reached into his breast pocket, to claim his handkerchief. She wiped first his tears, then her own, before restoring it to its pocket. "We're a sorry lot," she sniffed and chuckled softly, her chin trembling. She smoothed his waistcoat and the lapels of his jacket, risking little glances at him. She leaned her forehead into his chest and took a deep breath of him, nodding. "Take me home."

She shook her head no when he suggested getting her things. "Just take me home." He made sure the corridor was clear and then wrapped her in his overcoat and they walked into the darkness together, headed home.

The cottage looked beautiful. He had obviously taken care to keep it up while she was gone. He had finished and hung the new kitchen curtains she had cut from a irreparably torn dress of Lady Rose's. Later she would give him a smack for climbing the step ladder, but not tonight. The floor and steps had been swept, the windowsills and shelves dusted. He had kept the fire place and kitchen tidy. There were small jars of flowers, little bouquets on the kitchen table and the low tea table in the sitting room. Flowers from the garden; the tiny pale pink Cecile Brunner rose that clung to the wall in the front, cheery blue bachelors buttons, that Anna had laughed at and insisted on reseeding yearly, amongst them a bit of queen anne's lace, one he had laughed at and insisted on and re-christened Queen Anna's lace, stark white sweet williams and sky blue forget me nots, both of which made them misty when they were selected and seeded. And their anniversary lavendar. He had smiled and told her that first spring together, that he liked that their garden told stories, held memories even before the seeds sprouted. She looked at the bouquets and then him, confused, "When did you have time to do that?"

"This morning." His face clouded and he looked away.

"How did you know?" She reached out and pinched a fold of his suit jacket, tugging slightly.

"I didn't." His voice tightened. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I took to freshening them every morning - in case."

She looked to the floor, noticed the shine of his shoes, the pattern of the wooden floor and took a breath before she made herself slide into his embrace. Green was there, always there, but she couldn't let it matter. "Thank you."

He held her as though she might break in his arms. She blinked until the threatening tears cleared from her eyes, rested her head against his shoulder. His lips lit on the top of her head. "Welcome home, love," he whispered thickly into her hair.

She sighed and burrowed into his embrace, as if she could force Green out from between them if she held tigtly enough to her husband. It would not be that easy, she knew, but it didn't stop her from trying. John fannned his hands over her back, "Go on, can I make you some tea? Or do you just want to get some rest?"

She stiffened, the moment over, the next hurdle upon her. How to hide without hiding. How to go about life without going about life. They always changed together. They bantered and played. It was precious time to ease out of the confines of the day and into the sanctuary of eachother. Was. Another before. Another something that would be different and broken now. At least she would only have to hide the bruises for a little while longer. He felt her, stilled his hands, "Tell me."

She shook her head, "I'm not ready to rest yet." Another half truth. Like swallowing a shard of broken glass. "Will you make some of that mint and chamomile blend I like?"

She tried to sound nonchalant, hated how pleased he looked at having a finite, achieveable task to perform that would give her a touch of comfort. Hated how pleased she was to know that at the end of a quick bout of ice cold sponging and wrestling with night clothes while still damp, he would appear, with a steaming cuppa and hot water for the wash basin. And she would have time to cover up without him seeing the remainder of the bruises. It was going to be hard enough to lie to him about Green, to lead him away from the truth of the matter, she wanted no more fuel to be added to that particular fire.

She should have known better. He could read her thoughts in the play of muscles beneath her skin. He appeared, on schedule, balancing a tray with hot water and tea, just after she straightened the sticking nightdress and wrapped a shawl of his mother's around her shoulders. He took it in, her rapid ablutions, the damp nightdress , the lack of fire without comment. But he noticed, she could read that much in the flicker of his eyes over her.

He gave her time to drink the tea, poured some hot water in the pitcher, changed and sponged himself off efficiently and in silence. She watched him over the rim of the cup, followed him about the room with her eyes. She had missed the way he readied for his day, inspecting and laying out fresh livery, undergarments, stockings, polishing his shoes, choosing his tie and cuff links.

"Anna," he finally whispered, his voice small, his gaze so tender it chased her eyes away. "I won't touch you, not if you don't want me to, but I need to see what he did."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It'll do nothing to change it." She knew her eyes were wide, knew there was fear in them. Hoped he wouldn't think she was afraid of him. Only for him.

"You are my wife." His words were barely audible. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't not look at him. "Anna, please let me see." Her breath came faster, she would not cry. Not now. She blinked rapidly, hoping he would let it drop, knowing he wouldn't.

He didn't, "I want to respect your privacy, Anna, but there can be no more locked doors, no more secrets. I need to see what happened to you."

Gone were the weeks of just ignoring the statement or question. She owed him that much. Even if she couldn't tell him the real reason, she could give him a half truth. "It's ugly, what was done to me; it's almost gone, but it's ugly. I don't want you thinking of it when you look at me. I couldn't bear to see pity in your eyes. Or worse yet, for you to somehow make it your fault and torture yourself."

"What did you say to me the night I first let you, rather, the first night you made me show you the scars on my leg?"

She smiled at the memory and met his eyes before blinking hard to contain the water that welled silently in hers. "That was different. And you aren't playing fair," she chuckled through her tears.

"Seems to me it is exactly the same. Besides, I love you; and all is fair in love and war."

He reached for her but let his hand stop and fall to his side when the action drew a flinch. She dragged the heels of her hands over her eyes frustrated at how her body and mind wouldn't stop betraying her. "Well?" He folded his arms across his chest and smiled gently at her, "What was it you said to me, Mrs. Bates?"

She closed her eyes and sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Most of the bruises were gone; the smaller ones, the shallower ones. All had bloomed and blossomed, shifting color, growing and receding. All but a few had faded to a sickly yellow, or away entirely. But enough remained. Most noticeably, the one across her abdomen where Green had thrown her against the polishing table, knocking the wind out of her. She suspected it had broken a few ribs, as angry looking as it was and as much as it still hurt. The one on her collar bone thankfully didn't hurt as bad as it seemed it should. The two sets she worried about were the raking fingernail tracks just above her right breast, and the small, dark elongated ovals where he had gripped her arms.

She took a deep breath and walked through the pain of the moment to pass into a deeper sense of sorrow, looking back onto times when all they had was hope and murmured promises, to when it had it seemed complicated, but really it had been so simple. She made herself hard, it didn't matter, didn't compare to what she now knew of pain.

Stone didn't hurt. Stone didn't feel.

She stood and moved to the cold fireplace relenting, letting sorrow wash over her, and focused her attentions on lighting the fire, letting the match burn down close enough to her fingers that it hurt. She spoke while she worked.

"I told you that your wounds and scars are part of you, that they make you who you are."

"Mmhmm, and what else?"

Stone didn't weep.

"That they are beautiful because you are beautiful, because of what you have suffered, not despite your suffering."

"And you don't think that sentiment applies here?" She glanced at him over her shoulder, had missed the crinkle at the corners of his eyes more than she realized. She missed it so much she could forget how angry it made her to have her own words turned against her. She really didn't understand, now that she had felt how hard a man could be, how this man could be so gentle. Especially after all he had seen, all he had been through. She could refuse him nothing.

She took a slow, deep breath, and let the shawl drop. Stone was not afraid. But she wasn't stone. She was so afraid for him. She didn't want him to see. She lifted the nightdress over her head. Held it like a shed skin, crumpled and dead in her hand. Silence. His strained, measuring intake of breath. She couldn't look at him. Didn't want to see the darkness pass over his face, or pity or worry or self loathing, because she knew him, knew he would blame himself.

Her whisper sounded anxious even to her own ears. "They're almost gone. Really, I'm fine."

"Anna, nothing about what he did to you is fine. This is not fine." He reached to her, and when she didn't flinch, gently cupped the still purple bruise across her ribs. His fingers tested and prodded tender flesh, his mouth traced a tight line.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not much." She couldn't look at him when she said it.

"Do you want me to bind it for you?"

"No. It's really not bad anymore."

"Anymore," his tone darkened slightly.

She held very still. He turned, shuffled slowly to his dresser and pulled out a jar of salve.

"Will you at least let me put this on it?"

"Is that the one you use on your knee?"

He nodded.

"I miss rubbing your hip and leg at night." The admission nearly brought her to tears again. Everything was bringing her to tears tonight. She chewed the corner of her mouth, looked at the jar in his hand, and nodded her assent. "If you want."

His touch felt warm and good. The salve did help - she was grateful for it. When he was done he took her nightdress from her hands and slipped it back over her head. Numbly, she let him. Just as she let him when he guided her to the bed and slid in beside her. There he held back, awkwardly. He didn't seem to know how to sit or lay, whether he should touch her or not.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" The gentleness in his voice made her dig her thumbnail into her thigh. She didn't deserve this, tried to steel herself against his misplaced adoration, but he went on. "The strongest, bravest , most beautiful woman I've ever known. This doesn't change that. It only makes it more true."

She frowned, "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because when you do, I just feel how wrong they are," she looked out the window. Could see the two of them sitting on the bed, apart, reflected in the darkness of the pane.

"You say I'm strong but I'm not. I was so weak. I couldn't even get away from him. I couldn't make him stop. I tried but I couldn't make him stop." It surprised her how quickly she lost control, how quickly her words got away from her, and how easily the tears came when she was with her husband. She curled tightly in on herself. John was holding her again and again she wept. Gratitude warmed her even though Green was there, but Green was everywhere, so really what did it matter if she was a little bit dead inside and being held by her husband made her think of the man who raped her? She was as safe as she would ever be. Now if she could just keep her outbursts to herself and keep John safe.

He held his tongue, tempering his response, she supposed.

She chanced a glance at him, wished he hadn't. Tears rolled silently down his face.

She couldn't form words, didn't trust herself. Didn't trust anything anymore. That wasn't true. She trusted him. He searched her eyes, opened his throat to a welling of tightly restrained emotion, "Nothing I can do or say will ever be able to change what that monster did to you. I know that. That is the only thing I know. That, and that you are my world and my heart. The rest, you are in control of. You tell me what to do, what you need, what you don't need. I will do anything you tell me. Just, please tell me."

His tears flowed freely. But his voice only broke once, with his final words. She reached for his hand, hesitated, then made herself take it. "I'm so sorry. I just... Everything is ruined. Nothing can change that."

"Everything is broken," he gripped her hand, his eyes earnest. "Not ruined." He tucked a strand of honeyed hair behing her ear. "The thing about being broken is you can never quite tell how things will look when they're healed again. Trust me, I know about being broken. And at least we're broken together."

She snorted. Sombered. Pulled his hand to her heart, "I am so sorry that I made you think I didn't love you anymore."

He looked at her for a long time. "Being broken can make us do strange things. Don't worry, just try to get some sleep, and tomorrow we can move your things back here. We _will_ make it through this."

She wasn't sure which of them he was trying to convince.


	6. Nightmares

She was where he needed her. Tucked to his chest. And he did need her. Like he needed air. This last month had proved that over and over again in innumerable, painful ways. Her hair spilled into her face, fluttering with each breath. He was grateful she had finally fallen asleep. Though even in sleep her body tensed and twitched anxiously. The fire had died to bare coal embers while he rubbed slow circles into her back. He laid dumbly on the bed, mute, leg screaming for he dared not move and upset her still form. It added to the very real sensation that he was falling apart. Though he supposed that was better than his entire world falling apart which it had been until a few hours prior. What was he going to do? There was nothing he could do. He had failed his wife so completely and profoundly it made him feel physically ill. He watched over her while she slept and felt the tension in her small frame ebb and flow. At the very least he tried to smooth away the nightmares with the heel of his hand.

There was nothing he could do. His love hadn't been enough. It hadn't kept her safe. It had spared her nothing. His strength hadn't been enough. It still wasn't enough. The thought that he had been upstairs, joking with Mrs. Hughes, while Green beat and raped his reason for living just below them - it was too much. It made his chest constrict and his throat close. It made his entire body ache and did nothing to silence the dark thoughts that plagued him.

He had failed her. What was worse, nothing he could do would help her. And doing what he wanted the most - making that bastard suffer - would bring her more worry and more agony. He could only hold her ineffectually and whisper things to her that wouldn't really make a difference. That and find a way to walk on eggshells around her without acting as though he were walking on eggshells. He knew this because nothing had helped him after the war but time and his own will to live. And even then, the only reason he survived himself was luck and eventually the strictures of prison life.

The sight of her milk pale skin sallowed with the month old leavings of that bastard's brutality wouldn't leave his mind. She had lost weight, that much he could tell before she disrobed. But when she stood naked in the flickering lamplight, he had been shocked at how sunken and small she looked. She reminded him of countless dead-eyed Boer women, (fair and beautiful and grim when they and their children were first forced into the British-run concentration camps,) as they began to slowly starve. Now, with the moon nearly full, shining over her, he balked at how vulnerable she was curled against him. In his mind he could see hundreds upon hundreds of skeletonized faces, angry and accusing. Women whose only crime was loving their families, and trying to keep their husbands fed and supplied. Their children's only crime: being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, to fathers who were willing to fight to protect the lands they had rightfully settled. He helped put them there; had relayed the order himself. He helped keep them there. He shot at and killed their husbands and fathers. Burned down their homes, their farms, and drank himself into oblivion every night. He did what he was told, followed orders, kept Lord Grantham dressed, fed, safe and out of trouble as much as possible, and gambled and drank and fought to ease the pain in his chest when all else failed. To try to make those beautiful terrified haunted eyes go away. Now he was afraid, because when he looked at his wife, that's what he saw.

* * *

She woke up to the feel of John burring her name and smiled into his chest, before stiffening when everything came flooding back to her. Large warm hands cupped her shoulder and twined softly through her hair while she hid her face and sought out her composure like one trying to find matches in the dark. Still, she felt better, lighter than she had since the night of the concert. Maybe not rested, quite, but without the glassy eyed exhaustion that had been plaguing her. She knew as soon as she looked at John that he hadn't slept at all.

He shrugged off her raised eyebrows with a smile. "I haven't had you near me in almost a month. How could I sleep away my time with you?" She felt her face crumple at his words and again hid it against him, swallowing the tears that threatened. Oh Lord, she had been so cruel to him. Caused him so much pain. How could she ever begin to make it up to him. Even now she was hurting him; she could hear it in his voice as he rapidly apologized, "I'm sorry. I only meant I love you and missed you."

She swallowed her own discomfort and lifted her head to offer him raised eyebrows and a half smile, her sense of humour peering woundedly though her strained veneer. "So you decided it would serve me best for you to exhaust yourself fretting away the night?"

"Brooding, even," he intoned, his voice warming.

Her smile became genuine. Then she sombered, "Please, don't be sorry. Even _I_ don't know what will set me off. I'm just so grateful we are here, together."

"You ... you _do_ mean to stay?" His voice went smaller and shyer than she had ever heard it before. There was her heart, breaking all over again. She pushed herself up on her elbow and met his gaze fleetingly before pressing her lips against his. It felt so very wrong to kiss him, another thing she had no right to anymore, but he needed her. He needed her reassurance. She could make herself give him that. To prove it to herself, she held his gaze, heart wrenching though it was, "Of course I do."

"Good. I was lost without you," he whispered, his face ruddy with emotion.

And then she broke and hid her face in his chest once more, unable to watch the pain in his pale eyes any longer than she already had. She spent a long time just breathing him in, drawing strength from his nearness."I'll bring my things home with us tonight," she murmured when she was sure her words wouldn't shake.

"Good," he snugged her to him for a moment before bestowing a tentative kiss to the top of her head."Come on now, we best start the day. "

She smiled to herself against the cloth of his nightshirt. It would never be alright again, and he deserved so much more than a broken, ruined shell of a woman for a wife, but with him it was easier to breathe. Easier to move. Just easier.

As the days drew slowly past and the bruises faded away she indeed found some things grew easier, though some things grew increasingly difficult. She had to fight the urge to hide from him. It was strange. Before they had been so aware of one another, so attuned to the needs and wants, thoughts and feelings of the other, and it had been such a comfort. She had always considered it a blessing. Now it just hurt; each of them was fighting a very different internal struggle, one neither could really help the other with. Still she knew it hurt him when she turned away from him, so she forced herself to seek him out, both in the cottage and at Downton.

He hid from her, too. Behind books and chores, and sometimes in plain sight, when his eyes went far away and his expression hardened and set. It was strange, but these were the times when she most came out of herself. She found little ways to draw him back to her, to wake him up and suss out the smile in his eyes, if only for an instant. She knew him and she knew he only tried to stay away when he was having dark thoughts. It began with asking him to make her tea, or to fetch some coal, to help her with the bath water or with changing the bed linens. Sometimes she would walk up to him and simply hold his hand, or touch his face. That alone was enough to make him smile. So was an invitation to brush her hair. It became her main focus as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks passed: to see him smile and to make sure he knew she cherished him.

It was a bit like returning to the beginning, before they were physically intimate, before they were married. She tried to catch him in doorways and corridors on his bad days. To discreetly slide her hand over his forearm. Offer him a private smile, a moment of encouragement. She felt strange and awkward, but at least she seemed to need to touch him as much as she wanted to avoid it. She took this as a hopeful sign. Even if his eyes were far away and dark more often than not, and they both woke throughout the night from wretched dreams.

* * *

His words were sunlight and honey and his thoughts tinged with blood. She wasn't fooled, he could see how he worried her, which in turn made him hate himself for failing her yet again. He ended up feeling fractured, pulled in different directions, as though there were a multitude of selves warring for control.

There were good things. She hadn't wanted to sleep alone. He had worried she might, but she seemed to need to maintain some form of contact with him through the night. Even when she didn't sleep curled against him, he would wake to find her hand clutching his nightclothes or holding tightly to his wrist.

Several nights past she had brought the lamp to their bedside table and returned with a book. Without a word she had slid into bed next to him, handed him the book, and settled against him. It was one of the first gifts he had ever given her. A sweet fairy tale full of hope and peace and promise, Frances Hodgson Burnet's _The Land Of The Blue Flower_. As he read to her, he felt her relax into him, the ever-present tension genuinely easing from her muscles for the first time since she had returned to their cottage. She had even slid her impossibly small hand up under his nightshirt to trace halting, hesitant patterns into the skin of his stomach. Since then she had repeated her actions nightly, and he was thrilled, for it a safe way to spend time together and feel intimate, but with their attention on the story and not themselves.

Africa kept rising to his thoughts through the tumult. He would be walking with her and remember the sensation of marching in ranks. Or look over at a nearby hill and find himself scanning it for nesting snipers. He woke up smelling burning grass and wood. He learned in Africa that grass smells very different from the barns he had relayed orders to set ablaze, and the barns smelled very different from the homesteads. He had joined the army out of a sense of honor. How was slaughtering livestock, and starving women and children honorable? How was salting fields honorable? He had survived, kept his Lordship alive throug many a Boer commando raiding party. The Afrikaans speaking Dutch settlers had fought however they could and were all unbelievable shots, as they were farmers and hunters and all relied on their marksmanship for their sustenance. He could never bring himself to blame them though, even then. They were, as far as he could see, simply trying to protect what they considered to be their sovereign rights to the land they had colonized. Still, he had spilled their blood. Justified it as orders until he couldn't anymore. Justification. Did gold justify the forced razing and resettlement of the uninvolved tribal communities in the area? The forced relocation of tens of thousands of farmers captured trying to defend their land.

He had fought half his life to forget. Now he thought of Africa easily as much as he thought of Anna, but when he though of Anna all he could think about was what had been done to Anna. And who he suspected had done it, which then led to what he wished he could do to Green. When really, he should be taking care of his hurting wife, the mortar of his heart and soul, who more and more seemed to be going out of her way to lift _his_ spirits.

Sometimes he felt as though he were in a struggle for his very humanity. It would be so easy to fall to Green's level. He could find a way to do it undetected. He fantasized about it in the way he used to fantasize about making love to his wife. He could not just kill the man, either. He would have to suffer and if Green was to suffer, he must know the reason for his suffering and live long enough to understand what it was to be made helpless, to scream where no one can hear and to know true fear. He was capable of it. He thought back to his time in Africa, the unspeakable things he was made to do. The screams that still haunted him in the dark of night. He was capable of it.

Did Anna understand she had married a murderer? She knew a glimmer of what happened during the war, but... For her sake he tried to swallow his rage, hide his desire to hurt the man who reduced his strong vivacious wife into someone who bolted upright in the middle of the night screaming for him. He felt more than a little guilt that she was hurting and having to relearn how to live her life and he was so consumed by anger and blindsided by Africa. He wanted to be nothing but a source of support and love, but more and more he found himself drawing into his own mind, echoing around remembering the iron taste of blood. She deserved more, and he could tell it frightened her. She was forever trying to coax him out of himself. It didn't help that he was well and truly afraid to touch her. The last thing in the world he wanted was to remind her of what had happened. But that seemed to be all he ever did. He had his wife back, but found himself still wanting his wife back which brought him round to hating Green and plotting out horrendous ways to make him pay for what he had stolen from both of them. And through it all haunted eyes followed him everywhere.


	7. Candlelight

She found him in the courtyard after she was done helping Lady Mary with whatever the woman needed. He had hoped she would seek him out; he had gone to the courtyard for a bit of air and there was time before the dressing gong. He met her eye and patted the stack of crates upon which he was sat. She settled close enough to bump against him affectionately with a half smile. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple.  
He handed her the apple he had been holding and then produced a small wedge of hard cheese wrapped in a cloth napkin from his pocket and dropped it in her lap.

"What's this for?"

"You had to leave tea early."

"Mmhmm." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't think I haven't noticed you trying to fatten me up, Mr. Bates."

He liked the lilt in her words. It rang out more and more as they settled back into their daily life, particularly since they talked well into the night after their fiasco of a dinner out. Things were far from all right, but thy had reached an understanding. They had begun sharing more with eachother. He held up his hands in surrender, "An act of self preservation, Mrs. Bates. Soon it will be fall, and growing colder. You are an icicle in bed at night under the best circumstances. I cannot imagine how cold you will insist on making me midwinter if you are bereft of insulation."

She laughed and swatted his arm. He smiled to himself at the welcome sound of both her laughter and the satisfying crunch that cut through the courtyard as she bit into the apple.

It seemed she was always cold. Even at a normal weight she never held much fat on her body, and once she got chilled she didn't warm easily. It was something they had joked about in the flickering cast of candlelight; her right to his warmth, since it seemed he always had extra to spare, and her inistence on inflicting her icy hands and feet upon him. She was never truly warm during the day, there were too many places in the house, she insisted, that due to its vast size never properly heated up. He was usually happy to help; to slip an arm around her and pull her close to him or hold her tiny hands between his own. Before they married he had loved the way she would occasionally unbutton his suit jacket on late nights in the courtyard and slip inside of it to nestle with him, sliding her cold arms up his back to his shoulders, or around his middle, pressing her cheek flat to his chest. Then later when they became intimate, it amused him endlessly how she went languid in the heat, of the bath or bed or fire, lounging and sprawling like a lioness when she was finally and truly warm. It was one of the reasons, she eventually admitted, that she hated rising from bed of a morning.

She was quiet as she ate, but she ate readily, nibbling the core of the apple down to the seeds and stem, finishing even the thin brown rind of the cheese. Her appetite was coming back, but the weight she had lost was slow in returning. He tried to be subtle about encouraging her to eat more, but as with everything else, she saw through him. Some days she would have none of it, and glared and even snipped for him to leave her be. But lately, since the dinner, she accepted it more graciously, with what was closer to her usual quiet patience for his affections. His henning, she called it; likening him to a brooding mother hen. But when she had said it, she had said it with a genuine smile. The sort that made her eyes glint. So, he had literally clucked at her, fool beggar that he was, and earned an honest and open peal of laughter. The first one he had drawn from her in a very long time.

She nudged him when she was finished, held his paler gaze with her storm colored eyes and tilted her chin towards him ever so slightly. He leaned down and accepted the kiss. Tasted the sweetness of apples on her lips. Tried to still the sudden thrumming of his heart and not read too much into her actions. They hadn't made love since it had happened. John neither expected nor wanted to any time soon. Everything was so fresh and raw... And now more than ever he was chasing away his own set of demons... Still any attempt at physical intimacy on her behalf pleased him to no end and gave him hope that they would survive this intact.  
They would.  
They had to.  
He smiled at her - daftly, he imagined - and kissed the crown of her head.

"Thank you." She sounded far away.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For putting up with me."

The ghost of a smile tugged her lips and she slipped her arms around him to hug him fiercely for a brief moment, before she stood and walked briskly back into the servants entrance.

He was so grateful they hadn't been able to leave things behind at their dinner. What she had said surprised him. He wasn't even entirely sure what she had meant. They were nearly to the cottage before he had softly asked her, "Tell me how I see you as a victim?"  
He glanced at her, though for what he wasn't sure. He could barely see the road in the darkness, and certainly couldn't make out her expression under the brim of her hat. It took long enough for her to answer that he began to regret bringing it up again. But when she began speaking he could hear in her voice that she was pleased.  
"It's hard to describe. But I feel as though you see me differently, as though you can only see what was done to me."  
"Anna I don't understand. You yourself said everything is shadowed."  
"I know I did, but it think that I realized tonight that even though everything is shadowed, I don't have to let it stop me from living my life with you. It's going to hurt. It's going to be uncomfortable, but brooding over the past, over what happened doesn't help. You or me. I'm sorry that I'm so easily reminded, easily upset. I'm sorry we have to start over. And I'm so sorry it brings up dark memories for you."

It made him a little uneasy sometimes that she saw so clearly and completely through him. Was he really so transparent? He hated to hear her apologize. And apologies seemed to be the only words from her mouth lately. If anything he was the one who should be apologizing. He was the one who failed her. Who sat upstairs listening to the bloody opera singer when he should have been protecting his wife. He spoke more softly as they walked down the lane of cottages to their stoop. "You have nothing in the world to apologize for."

She had removed her glove and found her key first. She keyed them in and silently lit the candle in the entryway, her lovely face marred by the frown that came as easily now as her smile had come before. "I've everything in the world to apologize for," she murmured cryptically, not meeting his eye.

He caught her wrist when she began to move away. Cursed himself when the action made her flinch. He dropped his voice to tone that refused to be argued with, "No, Mrs. Bates. You don't."

She looked at him, her unreadable expression painted in candlelight and moving shadows. He shivered when she lifted her glove warm hand to touch his cold cheek tenderly. "I don't deserve you," she whispered, brushing her thumb across his lower lip before she kissed him again softly.  
"Funny," he responded, opening his eyes slowly, savouring the lingering contact of her hand. "I was just thinking the same thing. All right, Mrs. Bates. I can only promise to do my best. Though it won't be hard to remember how proud I am to have such a strong and brave woman at my side. But I do have one thing to ask." Judging from her expression in the low light, he had said the right thing. She raised her eyebrows earnestly, waiting for his question.

"Am I still allowed to hen?"

That was rewarded with an open mouthed giggle and a genuine smile, "Henning is acceptable, unless otherwise requested. Brooding, however, needs be seriously curtailed. Unless you have a nest of eggs to keep warm that you haven't told me about." She winked at him and he felt it low in his stomach.

"As promised before, I will do my very best."

"Good. Now, go upstairs, Mr. Bates. We've both had a long day. Start the fire and I'll fetch us the kettle to wash."

* * *

Things were getting easier. She wasn't flinching as much. She wasn't shying away from him as readily. They had begun to play a little, humor was returning to their existence. Green was still there. Behind every look, every touch. Causing guilt to flare in her throat when her husband stroked her hair, or cupped the small of her back. It made her hate herself all the more. She had caused this. That was the one fact she could not get past and the one thing she could not speak of with him. Her foolishness, her pride, her ego had overruled his better judgement and ignored her husband's cautions, and caused this.

The food had been good. She rolled her eyes as she filled the iron kettle from the kitchen spigot; it had pleased John to no end that she had finished every item of food placed before her and some of his. Everything else had been wretchedly stilted and awkward, down to the proffered car ride home with Her Ladyship. Still. They were talking now. And she wasn't through with her requests.

The coal smoldered and burned cheerfully when she entered their bedroom. John had lit the lamp and begun his nightly ablutions. He shuffled about in his trousers and bare feet, bracers dangling, undershirt snug to his torso, smoothing and hanging his tie and shirt. They arrived home so late most nights, that Anna insisted the smoothing iron be kept upstairs in their bedroom so that they could keep each other company and talk while they tended their livery and got ready for bed. She hung the kettle on it's hook and pushed it over the fire to warm.  
The heat of the fire was welcoming. She knew she should see to her own clothes, but instead unceremoniously folded herself onto the floor in front of the fire. She had a fresh outfit in the closet and decided to indulge in the luxury of tending to today's clothes tomorrow evening. She pulled her knees to her chest and watched him, let her eyes slide up his long legs and over the breadth of his shoulders. Bolstered her courage.

He wouldn't ever tell her what his nightmares were about. She guessed prison and Africa. Some were mild and he just murmured and shuddered a bit. Other times he would wake with a start and bolt upright, gasping. The worst were when he would wordlessly groan. Sometimes it sounded as though he were hurt, other times it was as though he were trying to cry for help or give orders.

They terrified her when he first came home from prison and they began living together. She felt so inadequate and ineffectual. Even though he wouldn't speak of them, she learned what worked best with each sort - soft murmurs, stroking his arm, sharply saying his name, giving his shoulder a gentle shake - and was usually able to ease it away before either of them were fully awake. He had gotten to the point where she hoped they had become a thing of the past or at the very least a rarity. That was another before. Now he was thrashing about and waking from bad dreams almost as often as she was. She leaned back a little as he reached over her to claim the steaming kettle from the fire, with a folded hand towel.

"I need something else, John." He had striped down to his bare chest and tipped some hot water into the wash basin.

"Anything." She felt a little guilty at how quickly and easily he answered her, not knowing what it was she was about to ask.

She took a deep breath and let it out silently as she followed the course of the wash rag over his upper body, "I need you to tell me. About your dreams. About Africa and your leg, and prison, and Vera and all the other things you've always kept hidden away because you think they will upset me."

The wash rag lowered to his side. He swallowed. Looked ill. "I don't know if I can," he managed a broken whisper, not looking at her.

"Do you love me?" It wasn't a fair tack. But he himself had said it before, all is fair in love and war.

"You know the answer to that." He frowned deeply seeing full well how she was cornering him.

"Then you need to tell me. I need to know."

"Why?"

"Because it's all part of you. If what is happening right now is making you go there again, then I need to know. And I.. I can't explain exactly. But I need you to tell me."

He looked at her, with an expression that hovered between panicked and trapped, though after a few moments she could actually see his resolve break. He sighed, "I'll try."

"Thank you. That's all I ask." She turned her head to the fire and rested it on her knees, hid the small smile that she knew betrayed her. For a thought had occurred to her. No one could take away how much she loved this man. Not Green. Not anyone. Not anything. John Bates was hers and she his. It was a warm thought; something akin to candle flame. She bathed in it and the heat from the fire until she heard the bed springs. Looking over to him, she smiled at him, sat as he was, back against the bed frame, adjusting their reading lamp. He opened the book they were working through, a collection of poems by Rilke, looking fresh and clean and crisp in his pyjamas, damp hair loosely combed.

Standing, she tipped more water from the kettle and returned to the fire with the washbasin in her hands as she sometimes liked to do. She knelt before the fire, peeling off her layers, easing open the confines of her corset in the coals' ring of warmth.  
The warm water felt good on her skin. Skin that no longer felt like it was going to crack and burn and flake off of her body into the air, as little pieces of floating ash. Even though her body still didn't quite feel her own, it was still a step. She clung to any return to something akin to normalcy with a stubbornness that reminded her of her husband and his mother.

A thought struck her as she finished. A thought she decided needed to be pursued, whether or not it brought up what happened. She slipped on a fresh pair of knickers, and continuing to towel herself dry, sat on John's side of the bed, facing him so that her hip pressed into the soft place below his rib cage. And promptly smiled at the confused and slightly uncomfortable mixture of concern and desire that flitted across her husband's face.

She leaned over and kissed the place near his ear where his jaw met his throat. Remembered a more inspired evening in February, felt her cheeks warm and nipples contract. Ignored Green. She rested her palm on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through cloth, with closed eyes.  
"I miss you." She felt his earlobe against her lips, her whisper more a breath. "I miss the feel of your skin on mine."  
His breath caught audibly in his throat. It made her smile. She pulled away from him to search his gaze and felt herself falter, not afraid, but grown shy, "I'm not... I mean ... I can't... Not yet, but, would it be all right if we just lay together, skin to skin?"

He nodded, silent, wide eyed and watchful, still as stone. She let the towel fall to the floor. Her fingers found the buttons to his nightshirt and pulled them one by one. When she was done, she smoothed her hands over his torso and chest, and carefully settled on top of him, always watchful of his bad leg. She traced the tip of her nose against the tendons in his throat, enjoying the sensation of her breasts crushed against skin and muscle, softness and bone. She rose and fell slightly with the cycle of his breaths. Let his heartbeat lull her. Contentedly found a patch of hair beneath her chin to tease with her fingertips.

"I'll not break, you know," she murmured into his collar bone after they had lain together for a time.  
He craned his neck to look at her. Eyes questioning. She took the opportunity to kiss him, and surprised herself by deepening it until they were both chasing after their breath. She spoke in answer a few minutes later in between softer kisses, her eyes hooded, "If you touch me; I'll not break. I may flinch a bit, but I'll not break."

He let out a strangled laugh that sounded almost more like a sob and his arms snaked tightly around her.


	8. Chiaroscuro

She hated that she wasn't being completely honest with him. I gnawed at her. She threw the spindled apple core in the rubbish bin, grateful for her full belly and the taste of cheese and apple still on her tongue. They'd made such progress recently but she felt like a fraud. She wanted to tell him, decided more than once that she was overreacting, that he would never risk everything they had worked and fought so hard for. She had even started to tell him a few times. But she would catch a glimmer of darkness in his eyes, rage he was trying not to chew on, memories he would rather forget. It silenced her every time. She wondered, if he found out, even though in her depths she knew he knew, and he decided to, how he would do it. He would be clever about it. He wouldn't want her to know, to think him capable. He would also be patient. Prison had taught him to patience, amongst other things, or so he professed. She might never know, really.

And then she was walking through water. Everything turned slow and tinny again.  
His Lordship was journeying to America.  
Which meant John was going to America.  
It wasn't a problem. It was his job. She was not the sort of woman to fall apart when her husband had to go away for a few days. Weeks. Possibly months. She would not let him lose his place over this. Not now. She made it through telling him to go home to pack without breaking. Barely, but she made it.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes found Anna trying to swallow her tears in the hallway and ushered her quickly into her sitting room. Anna stood in the center of the room looking small and lost, holding her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm sorry. Just give me a minute. I'm fine."  
"You are most decidedly not fine, my girl." Mrs. Hughes gingerly took her arm and led her to a chair. "Here, sit. I'll fetch some 'll have heard about his Lordship, I take it?"  
Anna's eyes met hers, and the younger woman furrowed her brow and nodded. "Please don't trouble yourself. I only need to catch my breath. I'm sorry, I'm being ridiculous," she sniffed and dug at her eye with the heel of her hand.  
"You most certainly are not. You are still very much in the middle of a very troubling time. Heavens knows there is nothing wrong with wanting Mr. Bates near you. Now, I have good news, but I also have to tell you something you won't like to hear."

Anna nodded, the crease in her forehead deepening.

"The good news is Mr. Bates will not be accompanying His Lordship and remains securely in the family's employ." Anna clamped her hand over her mouth, sucking in a sharp, surprised breath.  
"Do you mean it?" She choked through her fingers, relieved tears welling from her eyes.  
Elsie looked at her hands folded in her lap and took a breath. "Yes, but here's the rub: to ensure his help was not enlisted, I had to tell Lady Mary what happened."

Anna's eyes widened and took on a slightly panicked cast. The housekeeper rushed on, explaining, "I'm so sorry Anna. She refused to help unless I told her why. But she was exceedingly sympathetic and has sworn not to reveal your secret. She even apologized for insisting I tell her."

Anna looked at the floor and then at Elsie. "No, Mrs. Hughes. You're heart was in the right place. I cannot say that I'm not relieved that Mr. Bates will be staying, selfish though I may be. And in a way, her Ladyship knowing is a good thing. I've no wish for there to be falseness between us." Anna's brow furrowed again and her eyes went far away. Elsie longed to see the effervescent spirit that used to roam the halls return. It broke her heart to see her Anna like this, still so tortured, even after returning to her life with Mr. Bates. Anna's voice was introspective, "So much of my life seems to be swimming in lies right now that the fewer I need tell the better. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

She stood, reached out and grasped Elsie's hand tightly. "Thank you for ensuring that I might keep my husband here. I cannot tell you what it means to me." She held Elsie's gaze before turning and letting herself out. The older woman shook her head for a moment, angry that God saw fit to suffer her Anna through these horrendous trials. She sighed deeply and pushed herself out of her chair. On to the next thing that needed her attention. And then to see how Mrs. Patmore was doing with those blessed girls, Daisy and Ivy. She was going indulge in a much needed sherry tonight.

* * *

Wordlessly she hooked his arm and pulled him aside, into the downstairs linen closet she admitted to hiding in during the time she had moved back to the Abbey. She frowned, and her lip gave the barest of tremors before she took his face in her two hands, raised herself up high on her toes and kissed him as though he had been gone to America and returned. His body stiffened and tensed under her touch. He was shy of her advances. Was afraid when she didn't touch him, was afraid when she did. He worried she was pushing herself to please him. Was never sure if this was the case or not, if he should accept her advances or not. He was only human though, and it was impossible to resist Anna under any circumstances. By the time she pulled away from him he had nearly forgotten where they were and what day it was. Nearly.

She wrapped her arms tightly about his middle, pressed her cheek to his chest. "You're staying," she stated contentedly.

He relaxed a little, ignoring the throbbing in his leg, enjoying the quiet firmness of her breasts against his lower ribs, glad she was relieved by the news and not sent into a new direction of worry over him keeping his place and potential repercussions and whatnot. It was so nice to feel her against him, solid and small and awake and calm. His hands slid up her arms and over her back, meandering about on their own accord. She sighed against him. It was a peaceful sigh and it pleased him.

"Lady Mary knows," she offered into the cool dimness after a time, her voice gone quiet, but not small.

He nodded his head. She loosened her hold on him to run her palm distractingly up his side and across his chest. He took a small shuffling step to maintain his balance. She needed to stop that if he was to make it to the servants' supper without making a spectacle of himself. He caught her hand and kissed it, closed his fingers around it, held it to his heart. "I know. She must have just finished convincing his Lordship when I turned up with a valise for his shoes. I asked her what she knew."  
So much of his life revolved around a twisted shard of metal that shifted and bit at irregular intervals. It was a weakness, but that was perhaps punishment for his stubbornly strong sense of pride. It pained him as strongly as his leg pained him that Lady Mary knew of how he had failed his wife, even though her sentiments were kind. He shifted his bad leg again. It was aggravated today. He wasn't sure why. He ignored it and held Anna and hoped she truly wanted to be held. She kissed the stretch of fabric covered flesh beneath her cheek, likely guessing his discomfort, "She has promised not to tell anyone."

"Well, she can keep a secret. That much you know."

Anna tensed, dropped her voice to a whisper, "That was such a wretched night. She woke me by covering my mouth. Frightened the life out of me. I'd never really touched a dead body before that."

Silently, he cursed himself for bringing it up, but she seemed to shake off the memory and rose up again on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Come, we'll be late for supper."

* * *

Words had ceased mattering ages ago. She liked him to read to her simply because she wanted to feel the vibrations of his voice ripple through her viscera. It soothed her like few other things. She rarely seemed to pull enough of herself into contact with him to truly satisfy her need to feel his voice and typically ended up with a considerable portion of her person draped over him by the time he closed the book for the night. Even though content didn't matter, she usually payed attention to what he read. Tonight, though, she couldn't have said if it was fiction or essay. Even after he closed the book and turned the lamp down. Part of her was worried about Lady Mary, who had not returned that evening. More than that though, she worried about her husband.

"John."

"Yes, my darling?"

"I'm sorry you are missing this chance." Hadn't she just told herself she wasn't going to apologize, because it only ever drew him to make his own apologies and then silently glower? This time, though, it didn't.

"I would miss you more," there was quiet emotion in his voice.

"Thank you for that." She found his hand beneath the sheets and threaded her fingers through his thicker ones.

"Anna?" She loved the soft tones his voice took when they were abed together; the rough purrs, the gravel whispers.  
"May I kiss you?"

Only he would ask her so sweetly, in a tone to break her heart, as if it wasn't broken already. It was a compromise they had come to after their dinner out, when he had admitted how afraid he was to touch her, to remind her. "When I know what's coming, it isn't as bad," she had tried to explain. She felt ashamed that she needed her own husband to warn her before he touched her, but there it was.

She pushed herself onto her elbow and searched his eyes, silvered as they were in the lamp and firelight. "I love you, Mr. Bates." She squeezed his hip.

"I should hope so, especially after the apple and cheese."  
She giggled, and contented herself to kiss the smile from his face. She missed him. She couldn't get over how it was possible to lie next to him every night and still miss him. She missed laughing and joking and smiling with him over inane things. Missed his hands moving freely on her. Missed the textures and pressures of their bodies sliding over one another.  
She sucked lightly at his lower lip before rocking away from him to sit on her haunches. To hell with Green. She leaned past her husband to turn the lamplight higher, sat back and ran her fingers over his arm. John was military awareness now, likely counting her breaths, their depth and draw, cataloging the slide of muscle under skin, trying to gauge her, to triangulate his response. A sort of calculation of emotional trajectories. His and hers. She would know that look anywhere.

It had always pleased her to make him a shade uncomfortable. It was a bit wicked, but then he seemed to delight in that streak in her. She smiled, Green somewhere, lurking, but out of sight, as she harkened back to a particularly delectable evening of mischief. Once she was sure of his affections, she had not been shy of taking her pleasure from him, particularly since it usually involved doing something to both bring him pleasure and throw him off balance. And he was both drawn to and resistant to the notion of pleasure. He always seemed to be denying himself something, punishing himself for some long ago sin, though he professed a lack of belief in the notion of sin. So she often made little games of taunting him, drawing out his desire, and then disappearing down the hall. She had thrilled so in the darkness of the hall or courtyard or grounds when he actually accepted her advances. When he allowed himself to receive the love given him with a sort of pure abandon and simply sigh or keen into her hair. He grew bold, eventually, about repaying her in kind. They had both been in high spirits that particular night, she recalled, because he had returned to her and to Downton from Kirbymoorside. The divorce was progressing. She had decided standing next to him, at the amateur concert, that she needed to see the severe and stern valet break and show a bit of humanity.

* * *

She spoke low against his ear, as she unbuttoned his nightshirt, about the night the recovering officers and nurses organized the amateur concert. The night of his return to Downton. He had been giddy to have her so near him after so long away. They stood as servants should, at the back of the performance, in the far corner, well behind the Earl and the Dowager Countess, behind everyone. She caught his earlobe between her teeth and wanted to know if he recalled that night.

How could he forget the feel of her palm slide across the back of his thigh? Her fingertips hooking to graze the inside of his thigh, coming dangerously close to him? How he jerked away from her like she was an open flame; fought to maintain impassive composure, as dozens of people crowded next to and in front of them? She had only smirked and redoubled her efforts. "Of course I recall that night," his whisper sounded distracted, and laced with desire even to his own ears. He tried to kiss her as she leaned back, nearly fell out of the bed when she began loosening the ties of his pyjama bottoms. Tried to still her hands. It didn't feel right.  
"Anna you don't have to."

"I want to," she leaned into him, cupped him with her hand, bit the meat of his shoulder and he groaned aloud, his body betraying his need.

"Yes, but wouldn't it be better to wait?" Forming any argument became impossible even before she slipped her hand into his trousers. He was a weak, weak man. She felt so good, oh god, so good, and was no stranger to what he needed, what he liked. And then she was straddling his good leg, rubbing against his thigh, knickers on, thank god, nightdress somewhere in a crumpled wad on the floor, her hand still on him, caught between their bodies. Her skin shone ivory in the lamplight. He could never understand how it was possible for any one woman to be so beautiful. She leaned down to kiss him, her braid and her breasts grazed his bare chest and he made a guttural animal sound into her mouth. It felt wrong in some way to be able to take this much pleasure from her after what she had endured. But then she picked up an ancient rhythm against him and everything elected ceased to exist.  
They were close, he could feel it in the way she rocked against him, in the erratic gust of breath again his throat. She kissed him fiercely and he twined his fingers through her hair, gently but firmly pulling it the way he knew she liked when she was nearly there. She sucked in a sharp breath and went rigid against him. He lost himself then, time and thought stopped for a brief moment, as he fell over the edge and his world narrowed to pulses of pure light and the pounding of his heart and the feel of her body over his. And then the cold sluice of panic, because as soon as he regained his senses, and she quietly slipped out of his arms, he realized she hadn't gone rigid with pleasure. Her eyes were far away and her breath shallow.  
"Anna?" He whispered her name, fumbling for a handkerchief. Afraid, all over again to touch her.

* * *

_She was screaming. Her scalp hurt so badly. Her feet kicking and fighting for purchase. It just made Green curse at her, tighten his fingers through her hair and jerk her harder off balance to force her body through the corridor. She knew what would happen next. She felt sick. Her voice was so loud in her ears. Why had no one heard her?_

Then she was in shadow and lamplight, in the bedroom she shared with her husband, shame flaring through her chest, feeling like she was falling. Her arms sprang out to catch herself. John was saying her name over and over in the way he did when he was drawing her out of a nightmare. She swallowed tears. Blinked them back. Reached out and grabbed his hand so savagely it surprised her.  
"This is not your fault. Don't you dare blame yourself, John Bates," she blurted out before he had a chance to say anything beyond her name. "I should have warned you. He ..." She couldn't say the word drag out loud, took a breath and prayed John had not heard Green when she said he. "...pulled my hair." Her words did nothing to describe what it was like, but she didn't want to let her mind rest on that. Didn't want to admit what had happened, held on to the false hope that if she didn't it wouldn't be real. It was the same trying to explain to Lady Mary how she couldn't speak of it.  
He sighed heavily; his voice strained and small, "Please, Anna. Just tell me what to do."  
She hung her head. He sounded so lost. They were both so lost. Ships at sea, with no compass, no anchor, moored only to one another.  
Green was slipping into the shadows; her heartbeat slowly returning to normal. She crawled back to John and fit herself to his side, feeling his skin, breathing in their mingled scents. "Nothing. Just be patient. And hold me. And promise me we'll keep trying."  
She could hear the tears he was trying to silence. Knew hers would soon follow. Sighing, she nestled into him, began to knead his left hip absently and let them flow.

* * *

Anna was finishing up mending one of Lady Mary's gloves and had sent him on ahead of her to the servants' supper. A long, white pair. She was in a surprisingly good mood, considering the turn things had taken the night before. Or, she had been in a good mood until she saw Lady Mary's muddied clothes from the night before. He could almost hear her mental grumbling. At least she hadn't had bad nightmares. That much he was grateful for. She jerked abruptly a few times as she fell into a restless slumber next to him, as though she were falling and trying to catch herself. He made his way over to the laundry wing and caught her humming to herself as she scrubbed mud stains.  
"What has you in such a good mood, Mrs. Bates?"  
She looked at him and flashed him a private smile. "Last night."  
"But..." He lowered his voice to a murmur.  
"Yes, well, that was my fault for not warning you." She flushed, and seemed to consider her words before leaning closer to him. "Despite what happened, despite feeling shadowed by it, if I had warned you and you knew not to... I, I would have..." She smiled shyly and looked away, "I would have joined you."  
He had no idea how to respond, beyond smiling shyly himself. "Well, then."  
He was sat at the table, musing about how else he could buoy Anna's spirit, when he heard him.  
Green. He recognized the man's voice before he looked up from the tea he was pouring. Felt his body tense and coil, like a wound spring. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to lunge across the table at the bastard. He lifted the tea to his mouth and took a scalding swallow. He looked back down at his plate. Reached for a piece of cake, mashed at it with his fork. Heard Anna's cheerful voice cut short. He couldn't look at her or he would come unhinged. So he glared at Green instead, as the man casually turned from Anna and sat down. He didn't need to look at her for confirmation of what he suspected. The way she stopped dead when she saw him was enough. The way Mrs. Hughes immediately followed her out of the room, only confirmed it. He could see that even Mr. Carson had quietly taken note that all was decidedly not well with a few of his staff.  
He tried to keep his breathing even, and bolted down the cake as quickly as he could, trying to avoid being cordial to the man who he was not supposed to know had raped and beaten his wife.

He only hoped that now she would finally be honest with him about it.

* * *

She reached for him, but he wasn't next to her in the bed. It was dark as pitch. The fire must be out, she mused to herself. She opened her mouth to call for him, but could only croak out a choked whisper.  
"John?"  
She threw back the comforter and fumbled for matches and the candle at her bedside table. They weren't there. Why weren't they there? It was so dark. She stood and felt her way acros the room, trying futilely to call for her husband. She hurried down the stairs, growing frustrated at her sudden inability to speak. He wasn't in the kitchen, he wouldn't linger there in the dark, or the sitting room - she even felt the chair and settee for she could see nothing in the black room. As each moment of darkness slipped by she became more and more anxious until her anxiety crossed the threshold into panic. She moved to light the lamp on the kitchen table, and grew frantic when she couldn't find it. The corner of the table bit her hip. He wasn't in the wash room. She tripped over a pail, sent it careening loudly across the floor. She was still calling for him, mutely. She tried screaming his name, but the noise refused to leave her throat. It was so bloody dark, how was it so dark?

Then she heard it; the sharp sudden drop of a trapdoor. The twang and creak of a rope jerked taut and swinging. The sound of her world ending.

"JOHN!"

* * *

He woke in a blind panic. He smelled grass burning. Screaming. Boer women in the camps were screaming. He was just following orders. The troops were just following orders. That smell. Was the grass fire they set beginning to blow towards the camps. God would they never stop screaming? How did they know his name?! His blood ran cold. No. Anna was screaming. Shrieking his name over and over again; he had to get to her. Their bedroom. Not Africa. Shrieking. Anna! Not in the bed. Where was she? He clawed his way to consciousness, to reality. She was on the floor.  
Anna. Anna. He kept repeating her name, low and calm. Anna. He was in a cold sweat. God, she must have woken so violently she had thrown herself from the bed. It had never been this bad. He banged his toe trying to get to her and cursed loudly. Then he was on the floor with her and she was tangled in blankets, sobbing uncontrollably and shaking. He crushed her to him, as tightly as he dared. At his first touch she began to struggle, but he kept repeating her name until recognition lit her eyes and she seized him and clung to him with a desperation that surprised him. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder. She wasn't calming down, just clutching at him and shaking and weeping as loudly as she had when his guilty verdict had been pronounced those years ago.

He stopped smelling smoke, the feeling of panic was superseded by anger and sorrow, even as the adrenaline soured coldly in his veins. He reached up, pulled the comforter from the bed and wrapped them in it. Held her as tightly as she held him, echoes of her screaming transforming and twisting and joining the wailing chorus of women and children that plagued him. Of injured and dying soldiers, Boer in the fields, British in the hospital tents. His leg throbbed. Her tears didn't slow and finally out of sheer frustration at his uselessness he found himself joining her, yet again, his low murmurings taking a pleading tone through his tears, "Anna, love. It was a dream. We're safe. Anna. I'm here. Anna. You're scaring me, Anna. Please."  
Oh God, he could think of few sounds worse than that horrible wounded shriek; it rattled around his head, even after she stopped, blending with the softer heartbreak of her breathy sobs.

He couldn't stop thinking about Africa. About how after the war was over there was no way to undo the havoc the British Army had wrecked upon the land. The salted fields of the 'Scorched Earth' campaign lay stubbornly barren even when the Afrikaans speaking Dutch Boers were allowed to return. To return to their homes after being forced to pledge their allegiance to the British Empire. Reminders of their conquerors everywhere around them. They could no longer tease sustenance from the once fertile soil. Fruitful agricultural land raped and pillaged. An entire people made exiles or refugees, no longer able to provide for themselves or their wives and children. If their wives and children had survived. For when the Boer civilian led commando raids increased in 1900 their wives and children had been collected and consolidated into filth. So many died needlessly. There wasn't enough food for the British troops, let alone the families of the enemy. He understood that on paper it made tactical sense to reserve most of what supplies they had for the boys fighting the war. But the men who made those decisions were never the men who had to hear the desperate skeletal pleading of a mother holding her dying child. They never had to move bodies of dead children, pry dead babies from their keening mothers' arms, babies that were literally skin stretched drumhead-taut over a tiny collection of bare bones.

"I'm so sorry."  
Her words drew him out himself. He cast about for something to say. Some kindness or ray of hope that would help to calm her ragged hiccoughing breaths. He couldn't think past the remembered sound of her screams. So he held her tighter.


End file.
